Because of you I cry
by Thundere
Summary: Peter Campbell's been killed. Too bad for him - but who would resent him enough to kill him? His family? His lovers? Angry husbands? Well, that's the mystery. Rating's for safety. May change to M, depending on later chapters.
1. Prologue

**Because of you I cry**

_Written by: Thundere_

**Disclaimer**: This is fanfiction, I own no content_ nor_ do I make any profit of it.

.

**Prologue**

_May 9th, 1977_

Droplets of blood covered the cold bathroom floor as the dying man sank down onto his knees.

The warm water from the shower poured onto the floor, slowly transforming into a pinkish fluid.  
Peter drew a gasp-full of air, and raised his gaze to stare at his assailant; he couldn't believe his own eyes.

His aching heart almost giving in as he felt tears form, slowly and ever so gently ascend his cheeks. Thin lips quivered as he tried to speak.  
"It... It's - you!"  
The assailant smirked, showing his white teeth, resembling a predator right before the final strike.

A hand, safely covered in a dark brown leather glove, brushed against the wall, in the process smearing a string of blood.  
"Indeed, it is me," a pleasant tone was heard. The meekness of his usual sultry voice was completely lacking.

The shamefaced tone with layers of sheer malevolence made those four whispered words all the more appalling.  
Rather than the newly used gun in his left hand, it was the changed demeanor of his voice that made the man seem frightening.  
In the last moments of Peter's life, for the first time ever, he was scared of the man he had known for the better part of his life.

He felt scared, and _betrayed_. The feeling of betrayal truly hurt Peter more than the bullet wounds did.

But even that awful feeling of betrayal, disappointment and sadness was giving up on him.

He truly wished that his life didn't have to end this way, not by the hands of _him_, of all people. That fact alone was painful enough to kill him, Peter.

The very last sensation Peter felt as he drew his final breath of life, was simply sadness.

The unknown perpetrator, the killer of said Peter Campbell, sound out a chilling laugh as he looked down on his victim.

His dark vicious eyes scorching.

.

Scene break

_May 10th, day after Peter's death_

.

_Location: Campbell's residence, 2 hours prior to the discovery of Peter's body_  
"So? Why does he have to come, he's a complete bastard," Bob, the dummy, protested.  
"Because he's family, and you shouldn't say that about him, even if it's the truth," Chuck answered his better half, his voice laced with annoyance.  
While Bob certainly raised a good point, Chuck's meek nature and dislike of arguing with people, kept him from expressing his genuine thoughts and generally low opinion of his older brother.  
Perhaps it was for the better that no one knew what Chuck truly felt for Peter. That way, chances of people bothering him with pointless arguments was basically nonexistent.

Bob turned his head towards the kitchen door, when Burt Campbell, the father of Chuck and Peter Campbell, walked into the small kitchen.  
"Where are you going, you seem happier than usual," Bob asked Burt. Not that Bob/Chuck was interested in the answer, they just needed an opening.

Burt laughed, his eyes sparkling. 'Ok, either he's gone off the deep end, or he's just got lucky,' Chuck/Bob thought. 'And I seriously hope it's the former.'

"Ah, it's nothing," Burt said dismissively and went to the fridge, opened the door and grabbed a carton of orange juice.

Burt opened the carton of juice and took a few zips - straight from the carton. "Would you please get a glass, and not just drink right out of the carton," Chuck asked, his nose crinkled with disgust.

"Yeah," Bob agreed. "Just because you have no problem getting diseases from strange people, doesn't mean _we_ wish to catch, like, the black plague, or something."

Burt raised an eyebrow, while Chuck just stared disbelievingly at Bob. Bob looked between the father and son, broke the silence with one word; "what?".

.

Scene break

_Same morning_

.

_Location: Peter Campbell's apartment_

"Hello? Peter, are you there," Corinne asked, while impatiently knocking on the front door. One minute passed. Two minutes passed, but still no one answered the door.

Corinne opened her brand new white purse, and took out the spare key Peter had given her three weeks earlier, when she'd decided to move in with him.

She put the key in the keyhole, unlocked the door and turned the doorknob. "Peter? You home?"

'Strange,' Corinne thought. 'He said he'd wait for me here.' Corinne closed the door and stepped inside the tiny apartment.

Hearing the sound of water hitting the floor, Corinne figured Peter must be in the shower and left her purse on the king sized bed before heading to the bathroom.

Corinne stopped in front of the bathroom door when she heard a soft _splashing_ sound. She looked down to her feet.

She was standing in a pool of water, coming from underneath the doorframe. She hesitantly put her hand on the doorknob, dread twisting inside, and slowly opened the door.

It took mere seconds for Corinne to understand _what_ or rather _who_ she was seeing.

Corinne swallowed hard, stared at the carcass and slowly lifted her gaze to stare at the bloody letters that covered the left side of the wall. **_Boo, I got you!_**

And then, she screamed.

.

.

_AN:_  
_The date/year used, may not be the same used in the show. I couldn't remember the date so I just made one up on the spot._  
_For you who have seen the 2nd season of Soap, this story is slightly AU, so the killer won't be the same character from the show. Just saying._  
_And for you who haven't seen the 2nd season yet, well, I won't spoil it. You just have to see it for yourself. ;)_  
_Additional note, no OC's will be used in this story._  
_Until next time, then._

_/ Thundere_


	2. Chapter I - Funeral

**Because of you I cry**

**~Chapter I - Funeral of the not so dearly departed~**

_Written by: Thundere_

**Disclaimer**: This is fanfiction, I own no content_ nor _do I make any profit of it.

_._

_Previously on **Because of you I cry:**_

_Corinne swallowed hard, stared at the carcass and slowly lifted her gaze to stare at the bloody letters that covered the left side of the wall. **Boo, I got you!**_

_And then, she screamed._

_._

_May 11, 1977_  
_Location: Dunn's river's PD_

Chief of Police Tinkler sighed. He lifted his glass, swallowed a mouthful of milk, and return to his habit of drawing his gun and point it at nothing in particular.  
He observed how the pipe of his gun shone, as a faint ray of sun lightened the otherwise dim office.  
That is not to say that all of Tinkler's thoughts - that usually were only reserved for Oreo's and the mannerism's of cowboys - were focused on milk and guns.

Contrary to what most people in Dunn's river thought about him, Tinkler _did_ take his job seriously, and if eating sweets and drawing guns helped with his thought process,

then there was no harm in that. It's not like it ever made any serious damage.  
Ok, so there was that one time when he'd accidentally shot an old lady in the leg during a robbery in '68.  
But that could hardly be counted as his fault, the perpetrator had cleverly used the old lady as a distraction maneuver.

How was he supposed to know that the old windbag _wasn't_ an accomplice, anyway? She certainly looked the part.  
Which is was he'd been moved from NYPD to this dump. His folks had little to no love for him even before that incident, they were more than happy to let him go.

Claiming how he was overworked and needed some time off to settle down, while snickerin' at his misfortune behind his back.

Oh, the insult of insults!

.

_May 16, 1977_  
_Location: Dunn's river's cemetery_

Falling snowflakes covered the headstone like a shimmering shelter.  
The tiny group of friends and family had all gathered to say good bye to Peter Campbell, the young tennis pro who had died all too young, merely a week ago.  
The silence of this somewhat peaceful Monday morning was only broken by Father O'Hara's speech about how mysterious the ways of the Lord is,

and the well known quote "The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh".  
The service ended with a silent prayer, and then the group laid some flowers, white roses, in front of Peter's grave.  
Peter's father Burt Campbell shook uncontrollably, heart stricken with grief.  
His wife, Mary, silently embraced him, whispering soothing words of support.

.

From the perspective of a third party, one would never guess that among the grieving group of family, the man responsible for the young man's death,

was inwardly smiling, while he let fake tears of grief run down his face.

It was all in favor of him that neither the Tate's nor the Campbell's had any knowledge of the flower language.  
If they had, they certainly would have grown suspicious by the seemingly innocent white lily he placed upon his victim's tombstone.

.

After Peter's funeral, the Tate's and the Campbell's had all gathered in the Tate's family home, for support and solace.

It usually didn't take much for the two families to start fighting and arguing against one another, but in this case, the was no fuse to lit at all.

"Calm down, people," Chester Tate said, while brushing the palm of his hand over his scalp. "Hey!"

Everyone quieted down, when Chester raised his register, unused to hear his raised voice. "A man has _died_, a man belonging to _our_ family, so why don't you pay some respect!"

Everyone turned shamefaced at that, because they knew that Chester for once was absolutely right. "And? Who cares," A squeaking voice asked.

Glances turned to Chuck, sitting in a comfy chair dressed in black, with his dummy Bob in his lap. "Don't you have any feelings," Burt said with a dead-panned voice, while tears streamed down his face.

"He was your brother, and someone killed him." Bob shook his head. "Yeah, so? The extent to which I do not care cannot be measured," he stated flatly.

It's safe to say that the only reason Bob was saved from getting acquainted with the flames of the open fire that day, was the sound of the doorbell ringing.

.

.

_AN: _

_Ok, I said that there would be no OC's in this story, and I'm sad to say that I apparently lied about that._  
_Though the only OC that ever will show up is Father O'Hara._  
_Reason for that is because I have absolutely no idea which priest held the service of Peter's funeral. _  
_This is the only chapter he will ever, ever take any part in. You can consider him "dead", if you will._  
_Also, as a side note, May 16 1977 was indeed a Monday. I researched that particular date to find out which day it was. Clever of me, right? ;)_  
_However, I couldn't find anything about the weather, so I made a leap of faith and decided that it was somewhat snowy, _

_which isn't that far from the truth since it was snowing in Connecticut somewhere around 9th and 10th of May that particular year._

_Perhaps I simply care too much about irrelevant (aka historical) stuff like that..._

_Cookies for those that got the **Warehouse 13** reference. ;)_  
_That's all for now._  
_Until next time, then._  
_/ Thundere_


End file.
